I look down and realize I’m smiling, which is not standard protocol for me.
She spins and tugs at my wrist. “You’re allowed to move, you know.”
“I’m a bodyguard, not a backup dancer,” I protest.
Her gaze is skeptical. “You’re both.”
The sun is overhead, and I can feel myself relaxing in increments—until the fifth or sixth song, when Helena’s fingers lace with mine without warning, pulling my hand across her waist. It’s instinct to step closer, to shield her. But her back is warm against my chest, and all I can think about is how badly I want to rest my chin on her shoulder and forget about the entire concept of professional boundaries.
The song ends. The crowd scatters for more beer, and I’m still holding her hand. Helena lets the moment stretch a few heartbeats before letting go.
She gives me a sly look. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
She grins and keeps walking, but something’s shifted. Maybe it’s the heat. Yes, it’s definitely the heat and not the way the festival is engineered to make you feel like the rules are on hold. But I can’t remember the last time I was this off-balance—andenjoyingit.
We duck into a quieter lane, where the aroma of barbecue is so thick, I can taste smoke on my tongue. Helena points at a battered sign reading “CARNIVAL GAMES” with an arrow.
“You’ve never seen me throw a dart,” she warns.
“I’ve been in your house when you cooked,” I say. “I believe you’re dangerous.”
She elbows me, and we arrive at a row of battered stands containing balloon darts, a ring toss, and something involving throwing beanbags at bottles of pop. The games attendant behind the counter is half-asleep, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. Helena pays for a handful of darts and lines up, tongue peeking out in concentration.
I expect her to miss spectacularly. She doesn’t. She pops three balloons in a row. The games attendant gives a low whistle before letting her pick from the wall of prizes.
It’s all the usual—everything from teddy bears to plastic dinosaurs. But Helena scans the wall and then, without hesitation, points at the monstrous blue narwhal the size of a duffel bag.
The games attendant hands it over, and she drops it into my arms.
“Security deposit,” she deadpans.
I roll my eyes, but the stuffed narwhal is even softer than it looks, and it’s impossible not to smile. “I’ll keep it safe.”
She grins, and there’s a rare, unguarded joy in her face. I tuck the narwhal under one arm, and we continue down the line, side by side.
I wait until we’re away from the crowd, tucked into a shady corner with a view of the ocean, before I finally say what’s been burning at the back of my tongue all morning.
“I owe you an apology,” I say.
Helena stops, narrowing her eyes. “For what?”
“For how I acted the other day. For being an ass about Cole and Lucas. For treating you like you were a problem to solve instead of a—” I pause, trying to find the word that doesn’t sound like a confession. “Person who knows what she wants.”
She looks at me, and her expression is soft, curious. “You’re just doing your job.”
“That’s the thing,” I say. “It’s not my job to—I mean, yes, I’m supposed to keep you safe. But I’m not supposed to…” I have no idea how to finish the sentence without sounding pathetic.
“Get jealous?” she supplies quietly.
The word hangs between us, suspended, awkward and bright as a flare.
“I’m sorry,” I nearly whisper.
Helena tugs at a stray lock of hair, twisting it around her finger. “I didn’t mind.”
I snort. “You’re just saying that because you beat me at darts.”
